Belkox Joint Base.
Captain William Lennox had barely closed his eyes in the base guest house when a sharp rapping hit the wood.
Knock, knock, knock!
The urgent rhythm suggested that the night was far from over. Lennox pulled the door open, squinting at the messenger standing in the hall.
"Captain Lennox, sir. You and Sergeant Epps are ordered to come with me immediately."
"Now?"
"Yes, sir. Right now."
A soldier's first duty is to follow orders. Lennox didn't waste time asking questions. He shook Epps awake, the two of them threw on their gear, and they followed the messenger to a waiting jeep.
The engine roared as they sped toward the airfield. Upon arrival, Lennox found the entire tarmac bathed in floodlights, bright as high noon. Ground crews and technicians were scurrying in and out of the hangars like disturbed ants.
Inside one of the main hangars, the base's Ordnance Colonel was in the middle of a screaming fit.
"God damn it! What do you people do during daily maintenance? How does a whole wing of birds just end up grounded? Give me an explanation! How am I supposed to fulfill a priority transport mission with paperweights!"
An hour ago, the base had received a high-level command to prep a fleet of transport helicopters. When the Colonel arrived to mobilize, he discovered nearly every bird in the hangar was throwing inexplicable fault codes. They wouldn't start, and even if they could find the cause, they didn't have the time to fix it.
The lead mechanic, sweating under the Colonel's tirade, looked miserable. "Sir, they were green across the board yesterday. Even this afternoon, there wasn't a single issue. I don't know what happened..."
"Report!"
A pilot stepped into the hangar. The Colonel turned to him, eyes full of desperate hope. "Well?"
The pilot's expression was grim. He shook his head. "Only two Pave Hawk multi-purpose helicopters are turning over. The rest... dead."
The Colonel and the mechanic fell into a heavy silence. Seeking to break the tension, the pilot added, "The C-17 that landed tonight, however—"
"No!" the Colonel snapped. "Orders specifically called for helicopters. The Globemaster can't land where they're going. Likely a mountain extraction or a confined site."
He turned back to the mechanic, his gaze hardening. "Check those two Pave Hawks again. If they're clear, get them on the pad. And listen to me—" the Colonel's voice dropped to a lethal low. "Keep this quiet. For now."
Self-preservation was a powerful motivator. If the brass found out the base's flight line had been crippled under their watch during a national crisis, heads would roll. The mechanic and pilot exchanged a glance and nodded.
"Understood, sir."
The Colonel exhaled. At least they had two birds. He didn't realize that his cover-up was doing a massive favor for a certain hidden observer. High-level VIPs didn't like "unexplained mechanical failures." If Keller had known the base was compromised by a silent tech-virus, he never would have boarded those craft.
Waiting in the jeep, Lennox watched a luxury motorcade pull onto the runway. Over a dozen black-suited security details spilled out, followed by a swarm of base officers.
From the lead sedan, a white-haired man with an unmistakable aura of authority stepped out.
"Captain, that's our cue," the messenger said, shifting the jeep into gear.
As they drew closer, Lennox recognized the man: Secretary of Defense John Keller.
"Mr. Secretary, Captain Lennox and Sergeant Epps have arrived," an aide whispered to Keller.
"Attention! Salute!"
Lennox and Epps snapped to attention, offering a crisp salute to the man at the top of their chain of command.
"At ease, Captain, Sergeant." Keller stepped forward, clapping a hand on Lennox's shoulder, then Epps's. "You've both done a hell of a job. The Department won't forget what you went through out there. I've received your intel and relayed it to all regional commands."
"Thank you, sir," Lennox said, dropping his arm. He didn't let the Secretary's presence intimidate him. "What about the sabot rounds, sir?"
"Every combat-ready aircraft is being loaded with sabot heat-rounds as we speak," Keller replied. "If those things show up again, we're going to give them a very nasty surprise. But until we get the satellites back online, our comms are gutted. You're the only officers who've faced them and lived. I need you with me."
Keller checked his watch. "Questions on the way. We're burning daylight. Let's move."
"Yes, sir."
Lennox and Epps followed Keller and his security detail toward the two idling Pave Hawks.
"Wheels up!"
The rotors began to scream, churning the night air as the two birds lifted off, banking toward the horizon.
An hour into the flight, the lead pilot turned to his co-pilot, frowning at the gauges.
"Hey, check this out. Why is the fuel gauge still reading full? We've been at cruise for sixty minutes."
The co-pilot adjusted his headset. "What was that?"
The pilot opened his mouth to repeat himself, then blinked. The fuel icon on the primary display suddenly dropped by a single notch, settling exactly where it should have been.
"Nothing," the pilot muttered, shaking his head. "Just seeing things, I guess."
The next morning, the sun was high over the desert. After a ten-hour cross-country flight, the two helicopters arrived at a small army outpost four thousand kilometers away to pick up two final passengers: Sam and Mikaela.
When Bumblebee had been captured, the teens had been detained under Sector Seven's authority. Simmons had personally escorted the frozen scout to the primary facility, leaving the kids behind in legal limbo.
The Pave Hawks touched down briefly, their rotors never stopping.
Inside the cabin, Glen looked at the two new arrivals with curiosity. He watched Sam sit down across from him, flanked by stoic men in black suits.
"Hey," Glen said, trying to break the ice. "What are you in for?"
"Sam. Sam Witwicky."
"Okay, Sam. Why do they want you?"
"I don't know," Sam exhaled, looking exhausted.
"What do you mean you don't know?"
"Well... I bought a car," Sam said, leaning back. "Turned out to be an alien. Then everything just... went south."
"Whoa," Glen breathed, eyes wide.
The helicopters sped on. An hour later, they banked around a massive mountain range, revealing a sprawling river and a colossal wall of concrete spanning the canyon.
Hoover Dam.
As they hovered over the massive structure, Sam could see crowds of people gathered on the observation decks. The Pave Hawks settled onto the helipad marked with a giant 'H.'
Sam spotted a familiar face in the crowd below: Agent Simmons.
The moment Sam stepped off the bird, he marched straight up to the man. "Where is my car?"
"Kid, I think we started off on the wrong foot," Simmons said, his voice dripping with forced warmth. "You must be starving, right? How about some coffee for you and the lady? Or some dessert? Our mess hall makes a mean pie. You won't forget it."
Simmons's sudden hospitality was jarring. He no longer called Mikaela a criminal; he was practically groveling. Clearly, Banacheck's briefing had reached him: these kids were the only ones who could talk to the "visitors."
But Sam wasn't buying it. "Where is my car? I just want to know where my car is!"
Mikaela stepped up beside him, dropping her backpack onto the concrete ledge of the observation walkway. She stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Sam, a united front.
In her haste, she didn't notice her phone slide out of the unzipped pocket. It skittered across the concrete, slipped through the railing, and began to tumble down the gargantuan, sloping face of the dam...